


“Why are you crying?”

by thenorthernwastrel



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 3 (Video Game)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenorthernwastrel/pseuds/thenorthernwastrel
Summary: "Ben knew. Or at least, he had an idea."
Relationships: Hero of Brightwall/Ben Finn
Kudos: 16





	“Why are you crying?”

“Why are you crying?” 

The Hero blinked slowly, and brought a hand to his face to touch the tears there. He wasn’t surprised; he knew he’d started to cry, but he’d just realized it was something others could see as well. He’d been used to keeping such feelings inside, feelings of turmoil and anguish— anger and sadness, for _so_ long, that to finally be able to cry almost made him _happy_.

Almost. 

His shoulders began to shake as he used the same hand to cover his face, tears flowing past his fingers. His composure rapidly begin to slip, to that point where there was simply nothing that could make it stop, only make it _worse_. His lips parted as he began to gasp for breath, other hand laying by his side in an impossibly tight fist.

Ben lightly put his own hand over it. “Love, please— talk to me, what’s wrong?” He looked at the hand that covered his lover’s face, desperately trying to see through it. 

“I—” He struggled to find the breath to finish a word, and the thought to finish a sentence. “I don— _I don’t know_.” He brought his other hand up to cover the rest of his face; Ben wrapped his arms around him and pressed his head into his shoulder, where the Hero conceded to rest it.   


Ben knew. Or at least, he had an idea. It had been years since Albion’s final battle against the darkness was fought, since his King was forced to go through something even _worse_ than the most traumatizing ordeal Ben could have thought of. It had been years of silence, of ruling a peaceful kingdom, years spent picking up the pieces of a people still wrought with grief of their own loss, and, for the two of them, a time of love and togetherness. And in these emotionally charged years, not _once_ had Ben seen his beloved cry.

It was an odd thing, holding him. Using those hands the man had killed _hundreds_ in a state of fury, and now they were being used to conceal his _sadness_. Ben had seen him angry, seen what he could do with those gauntlets and a bad attitude, and now, tear soaked and shaking, he realized as powerful as they were, those hands were _human_. They were the deadliest and most important pair of hands in the country, and they were _trembling_. And the soldier actually found himself somewhat thankful for it.

He looked over to Sir Walter’s statue; the pair had been standing at the edge of the garden, looking over the city to watch the sunset. He briefly wondered what the man would be doing if he were here now: would he have offered his shoulder to cry on as well, or tried to brush the whole thing off, offering a pint and a joke instead? Would his love even be crying to begin with if he were still alive?

“He would be proud of you, you know,” Ben said after a time, not needing to specify who he was talking about.  


The Hero’s shoulders stopped shaking, and his breaths grew more even and warm against Ben’s shoulder. _Those words_ triggered an echo in his memory, and his body slumped under the weight of the contentment and longing they brought.

“I know.”  



End file.
